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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249767">love will set your soul on fire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie'>punk_rock_yuppie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Big Time Adolescence (2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blowjobs, Get together fic, Kissing, M/M, Post-Film, Sobriety, college fic, handjobs, reconcilliation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:00:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,034</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249767</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mo is a sophomore in college when he sees Zeke again. Somehow, Zeke’s pull is stronger than ever.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Monroe "Mo" Harris/Zeke Presanti</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>love will set your soul on fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so my roomie and I watched Big Time Adolescence and we immediately shipped mo/zeke, because we're trash humans. after the movie was over, I had the burning urge to write a "they meet again when Mo is in college" fic, and I wrote this whole thing in less than 2 hours late at night haha. </p>
<p>Big thanks to Pip for enabling this, Hannah for beta'ing, and to anyone who reads this very, very, very rare pair. </p>
<p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He’s still got the same tattoos, that much is obvious even at a distance—the inky black covers his forearms, familiar and foreboding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He’s kind of surprised Zeke’s not wearing longer sleeves. The coffeeshop is a little more upscale; it’s not the place Mo would’ve ever expected to see Zeke working in. And yet, there he is. His hair isn’t blond anymore, but it’s not the same shaggy brown it was when Mo first met him. It’s somewhere in between: a sun-kissed brown, but not quite long enough to look sloppy. He’s smiling as he passes a drink over to a customer, and Mo stands frozen at the entrance to the shop. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo makes up his mind in an instant and turns to leave when that oh so familiar voice, a little deeper and a little harsher, calls out, “Momo!” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>Mo winces, but forces himself to approach the counter where Zeke now waits. He’s in a burgundy apron that says </span><em>Zeke</em> across the chest. It’s entirely at odds with the last time Mo saw him: at the fast food joint, <em>Isaac</em> sewn across the uniform. There’s something comforting about Zeke still going by his nickname—just as there’s something off-putting about it. A thought niggles at the back of Mo’s head: maybe Zeke hasn’t really changed at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke clears his throat and brings Mo out of his thoughts; he’s got a hand extended for a shake, and Mo returns it without thinking. It’s a fluid motion from a quick grasp of their hands, to a fist bump, to making the fist-bump explode. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“How you been, man?” Zeke asks.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Uh, good.” Mo blinks. “Just started spring break.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke nods. “Nice, nice. You likin’ college?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Yeah,” Mo says, “it’s stressful, but it’s pretty cool.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Awesome, man, that’s awesome.” Zeke’s hand moves to poise over the stack of cups beside the register. “What can I get you?” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo realizes he has no idea what he wants and his gaze darts up to the menu hanging over the counter. “Uh.” He’s not much of a coffee drinker, usually goes for tea, but it’s the weekend and all his projects and assignments are finished, so he was kind of thinking of doing something fun and different.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Coffee on a Friday afternoon is fun and different?</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> He thinks, only a little bitter.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Why don’t I surprise you?” Zeke says.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>Mo bites his tongue on replying with, </span><em>you always do.</em> “I don’t know,” he says instead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“C’mon, I promise you’ll like it, man. Cross my heart and hope to die.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo swallows. “Alright,” he says after a beat. “Why not.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Awesome. And hey, this one is on me, okay?” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo doesn’t even bother reaching for his wallet or arguing. He just slides along the counter until he stands by the end where the drinks go up. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>There are a couple people milling about behind the counter but Mo watches as Zeke makes his drink. Mo can’t quite see what Zeke is doing—because of all the machines behind the counter, and because it seems like Zeke is deliberately trying to hide it from him.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>The thought makes anxiety spark in Mo’s chest, but he pushes it down. He shifts impatiently from foot to foot until finally, Zeke presents his drink with a flourish. The burgundy, patterned cup has a white lid on top, and steam escapes through the hole in the lid. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Momo,” Zeke calls out, even though Mo is standing right there, “Momo?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Shut the fuck up, man,” Mo says, laughing despite everything. He takes the cup from Zeke’s hand and their fingers brush; Mo ignores it, and so does Zeke, if he even noticed at all. “This isn’t gonna kill me, right?” Mo asks, just to be safe.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke snorts. “Nah, man. I remember your allergies and shit. Just try it.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo’s still suspicious as he brings the drink to his mouth, but he drinks it anyway. It’s hot enough to burn his tongue, but he takes a sip regardless. Immediately the smooth taste of cocoa and the bitter tang of coffee hit his tongue, and as he swallows he tastes the hazelnut. It’s simple, nothing really special, but it warms him down to his toes.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“We have a winner, don’t we?” Zeke asks, already smirking wide.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke’s grin widens even more. “Glad you like it,” he says, confident as ever. “What you up to today?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>“Just finishing up a couple last minute errands before I head home for break.” Mo feels a faint burn of a blush on the back of his neck; he’s going home for break, and he’s fine with that, excited for it even. But telling Zeke that makes some primal, adolescent embarrassment rise up with the threat to consume him.</span> He’s not going to Florida or Cancun, just going back home to his parents. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“That’s awesome,” Zeke says. He doesn’t even sound mocking. “Tell Reuben I say hi, huh?” He’s grinning, shit-eating as ever. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Helplessly, Mo finds himself having missed the expression. “Totally,” he says, even though he plans to do no such thing. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Maybe I’ll see you round after break is over,” Zeke says, gesturing to the coffeeshop around them. “I’m angling for manager, you know.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>It sounds like kind of a joke, but also not quite—so instead of laughing, Mo splits the difference and smiles. “Yeah, maybe,” he says, noncommittal but also...also hoping that he does actually see Zeke again. It’s been a long fucking time, and Mo’s had years to deal with everything that happened five years ago. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo raises his cup with a nod. “See you, Zeke.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke’s smile softens. “See you round, Momo.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>“You seem distracted,” his dad tells him that weekend over dinner. He’d just gotten back into town early that morning, and had subsequently spent most of the day sleeping off his exhaustion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Do I?” Mo asks as he spears asparagus and chicken onto his fork. “I don’t feel distracted.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>But that’s a lie—he </span><em>is</em> distracted. Has been ever since he ran into Zeke, three days ago. That afternoon after getting his coffee, he’d sat on his bed and sipped his drink and stared at his phone wondering if Zeke ever changed his number. He’d spent the following day frantically packing because he was so consumed by thoughts of Zeke, he didn’t get anything done that first night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He’d ended up leaving his contacts at his dorm, in his haste.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Honey, cut him some slack,” his mom says. “School has been busy lately, hasn’t it, Mo?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo nods. “Yeah, not as bad as last year, but it’s still a lot.” It’s not even a lie—he still isn’t totally sold on what he wants to do for a career, so he’s constantly teetering on this edge of changing his current major (creative writing) to something else (no, literally, anything else). “It’s good, though. Acing all my classes so far.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>His dad grins and nods approvingly. “That’s my boy.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>The conversation drifts to baseball and how his dad is thinking of volunteering to coach the local little league team and Mo does his best to pay attention, but...well, his thoughts drift. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>To Zeke, of course. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke in that burgundy apron and the black shirt underneath, showing off his arms covered in tattoos to the world. Zeke, with his brown hair that Mo hadn’t seen in at least ten years. Zeke, smiling bright and wide and, for once, not looking stoned or drunk or even depressed. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>It could all be an act,</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> Mo thinks to himself as he helps his mom clear the table, </span>
    <em>he’s in customer service. They have to look like the sun shines out their ass.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Even so, as Mo bids his parents an early goodnight and wanders back up to his childhood bedroom, he can’t stop thinking about Zeke. It’s an unsettling change of pace given that he’s managed to stop thinking of the guy for the majority of his life after the shitshow that was his sophomore year of high school. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He’d gotten expelled, transferred to a different school, and after that day at the fast food place, he’d gone on with his life. He’d driven away determined to never eat there again, and to never see Zeke again.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>But it kind of feels like fate has different plans.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo falls onto his bed, too short for his tall, lanky frame, and digs his phone out of his pocket. He’s ready to pull up Facebook and search for Zeke—would he still have the same account he used to? Does he run with the same crowds?—when his phone chimes with a notification.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <b>
      <em>
        <span>Zeke Presanti wants to send you a friend request!</span>
      </em>
    </b>
  </span>
  <b></b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo swallows and sets his phone down. He stares at the wall across from his bed and focuses on clearing his thoughts. It’s not totally surprising that Zeke would send him a friend request. Zeke was always kind of desperate, kind of clingy. Needy in a way that Mo didn’t really understand until he was a little older, and after a little bit of therapy. Mo knows, looking back, that Zeke was just desperate to belong, desperate to have company, desperate not to be alone. And in a way, Mo relates. He’s never been great at making friends, after all.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo reaches for his phone, unlocks the screen, and opens the Facebook app. He accepts the friend request, and his Messenger app dings almost instantly.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Hey man, just wanted to say it was good to see you. Not trying to be a creep. </span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>A second message quickly follows the first before Mo can even reply.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>I’m sorry for the shit that went down before. It was my fault, I fucked up. It wasn’t cool of me, and I’ve regretted it for a long time. </span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>I get it if you don’t wanna see me ever again or wanna block me or whatever. I just needed you to know I really am fucking sorry, and if I could change shit, I would.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Don’t forget to tell Reuben I say hi.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo stares at the messages. The little icon beside Zeke’s profile pic goes gray with inactivity pretty quick, and Mo stifles a laugh. He can’t really blame the guy—it takes a lot of nerve to message someone on Facebook after not seeing them for five years, just to apologize. Mo probably would’ve thrown his phone out a window after sending those messages, just so he wouldn’t have to see the response. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo bites his bottom lip as he stares at the messages. Eventually, his screen goes dark and Mo double-taps it to bring the app up again. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He starts to type. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>I forgive you. I forgave you a long time ago, but I couldn’t be friends with you, back then. I hope you understand. I hope you’ve been good. It’s nice seeing you have a job. Whatever happened to that script you were telling me about?</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>Then, after a moment’s consideration, he sends a second message: </span><em>text me?</em> </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He adds his number to the message before hitting send then drops his phone onto the bed like it burned him. He sits up, leaves his phone sitting face down on the bed, and goes to the bathroom in the hallway to get ready for bed. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He comes back feeling fresh-faced and falls onto his bed once more. After a burst of fear—what if Zeke hasn’t messaged him? What if this was all some kind of sick joke?—Mo reaches for his phone and is surprised to see three messages waiting for him.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>On Messenger, only a simple </span>
    <em>‘k.’</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Then, two texts: </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Yo</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>and</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em><span>Sorry, that’s dumb. Is it cool if I tell you that I’m freaking out right now? I kind of expected you to throw that coffee back in my face. </span>Still kind of surprised you didn’t.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>Mo stares at the messages for longer than really necessary. The cool aloofness of ‘yo’ and the immediate retraction, the vulnerability. Words ring inside Mo’s head, in Zeke’s voice, </span><em>we don’t cry in this fucking house, we do drugs in this fucking house</em>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not anymore,</span>
  </em>
  <span> <em>I guess,</em> Mo thinks. Hopes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo hurries to type out a reply. </span>
    <em>I’m kind of freaking out too. I thought you might poison my coffee.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>And deprive the world of your fucking face? Never. Not in a million years.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo smiles. </span>
    <em>What have you been up to?</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>There’s a delay in a reply. Mo wonders, briefly, if Zeke’s gone to bed. Before, Zeke never had an easy time sleeping. He’d stay up all night drinking or smoking or fucking, and sleep the entire next day away. Mo hopes that those days are over, or at least fewer and further in between. He’s almost dozing off by the time his phone vibrates in his hand. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Rehab, mostly. Took like a year and a half to finally get clean and not wanna fuckin die. Coming up on my six-month mark here soon. </span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>Mo blinks. </span><em>Rehab? </em>he types out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Had to get my shit together,</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> is Zeke’s swift reply. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>It’s almost too much for Mo to wrap his head around. He remembers the days of Zeke denying he ever had a problem, and he remembers the jokes Zeke threw around with that old friend about rehab. Never, not in his wildest dreams, would Mo have expected Zeke to get clean.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>That’s amazing,</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> Mo types, </span>
    <em>congratulations.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Yeah, it’s cool I guess. I still smoke pot but now I get it from a doctor’s note and it’s like, medicinal and shit.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo snorts. </span>
    <em>That’s better, at least.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>wbu? how’s college?</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Good. Scary. I have no idea what I wanna do with my life.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>You’ll figure it out. You’ve always been a smart kid.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo smiles at the message and is about to type a response when another one comes in.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Gotta hit the hay, early shift tomorrow. I’m serious, tell Reubs I said hello and film his reaction for me. </span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>Mo squashes the feeling of disappointment in his chest; it </span><em>is</em> getting a little late, and even Mo himself is tired. He fires off a quick response, <em>I’m not gonna do that, but sleep tight. </em></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He’s falling asleep just as a last message comes in—a winky emoji. Mo dozes off laughing under his breath.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“So,” his dad starts a few days into spring break, “how’s school?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo looks up from his phone. “Uh, you’ve asked me that like a half dozen times already.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“I’m just curious!” His dad says, raising his hands in innocence. “You don’t call as often.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo winces. “This year has been really busy,” he says not for the first time, “it slips my mind.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>His dad smiles. “I understand, son. We just like to know what’s going on in your life.” Then, his dad’s gaze drops to his phone where it’s resting in his hands. His gaze lingers there, for a moment, before he looks at Mo again. “Any news on the dating front?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo chokes on his own spit. “What? Oh, god no.” He shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t have time, and I’m way too awkward for that.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Nonsense,” his mother chimes in as she sweeps into the dining room with a plate of pancakes. “You’re a handsome young man, you’d do fine in the dating game.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Mom, please,” he says, strangled. “I really don’t even have the capacity to think of dating.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>His dad hums. “You’re texting a lot,” he says. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo’s hands tighten around his phone before he forces his grip to relax so he can slip it into his pocket. “Just some friends from college,” he says casually, “and sending a couple emails to teachers about school stuff. I’m thinking of changing my major.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>That derails his dad from whatever interrogation was oncoming. “Really?” He asks, sitting up straighter. “You don’t want to go for a creative writing major, anymore?” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>It’s not exactly a better conversation to have, because it isn’t like Mo has any idea what he actually wants, but it’s better than telling his dad he’s talking to Zeke again. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo makes it through spring break without his parents finding out that he’s texting Zeke. Which, frankly, is probably a miracle, because after that first night with the friend request it’s a little like the floodgates have opened. Five years of no contact means they have so much to talk about, so much that it’s almost overwhelming at times. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo tells Zeke about graduating high school with pretty much zero friends, and going into college the same way. He tells him about a couple hookups he had his freshman year but how he hasn’t really done anything after a disastrous party where he nearly got arrested. He tells Zeke about flunking a class his first semester of sophomore year and how he cried—and he tells Zeke about how his roommate tried to get him shitfaced to make him feel better, but forgot him at the dorm. He tells Zeke about anything he can think of.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>And in turn, Zeke does the same. Zeke tells him about the couple false-starts at rehabs before it finally stuck. He tells Mo about the relapses and the mistakes and the handful of stints in jail for shit like possession and intent to distribute and public intoxication. He tells Mo how he’s been clean for nearly six months and he wants to do something fun to celebrate, but can’t think of anything other than partying. He tells Mo how he finally moved out of his grandma’s house and rents a one-bedroom apartment just outside city limits. It means his commute to the coffeeshop on campus is a fucking nightmare, and he tells Mo how he bikes it because he lost his license.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>They talk about good shit too, though. Like Mo getting straight A’s for his second semester so far, and Zeke working hard at the coffeeshop and how he’s thinking of going for a lead position. They talk about Mo’s sister getting pregnant and how her fiancé is nice but somehow an even bigger douche than Doug was. Zeke tells Mo about the dog he’s got, a scrappy terrier thing that pees itself every time Zeke gets home from work. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>It’s as Mo is driving home that he gets the text that will change everything. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em><span>Hey, you’re gonna be home soon, right? Wanna go out this weekend? Pizza and a movie, maybe?</span> Friday?</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo can’t answer because he’s driving, but as soon as he’s parked in his space at the campus garage, he scrambles for his phone.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Sorry, was driving. Yeah, I’d like that</span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke’s response is instantaneous, like he’s been waiting. </span>
    <em>Awesome. Pick me up from the shop at like, six? if you don’t mind driving.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>Mo grins nervously down at his phone and replies, </span><em>I don’t mind</em>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>-</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo hangs around outside on the sidewalk while he waits for Zeke to finish up his shift. Eventually, the bell above the door chimes and Zeke steps out, a hood tugged down over his brown hair and his hands shoved in the pockets of a ratty denim jacket. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Hey,” Mo says. It’s the first time he’s seen Zeke since he first wandered into the coffee shop, almost three weeks ago now. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>“Hey,” Zeke replies, smiling. “Where’s your car?”</span> He pauses long enough to unhook his bike from the rack outside the shop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>“This way,” Mo says with a gesture for Zeke to follow. The older man falls in step with him and they meander over to the same car Mo drove in high school—the same car that belonged to his sister.</span> </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Upon seeing it, Zeke snorts. “Nice,” is all he says, and it doesn’t sound as mean as it might’ve five years ago. They cram the bike into the back with only a little trouble. Zeke clambers into the passenger seat and Mo slides into the driver’s seat.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Do you know what movie you wanna see?” Mo asks as he pulls out of the parking lot and gets onto the main street that’ll take them into town. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“No clue,” Zeke says proudly, “you pick.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Don’t make me pick, I have no idea what’s even playing right now!” Mo’s laughing, though, and his chest feels light. “How about pizza first?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“That we can do.” Zeke nods at an upcoming turn. “Turn right here, it’s down a couple blocks but it’s the best fucking pizza I bet you’ve never had.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo doesn’t exactly get out much, but he doesn’t bother telling Zeke that. Zeke already knows, really. He follows the instructions and takes the next turn a little too sharp. Zeke bursts into laughter as they pull into the cramped parking lot of the hole in the wall pizza joint.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“You’re a shit driver,” Zeke says as they climb out of the car.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“I learned from the best,” Mo retorts, gesturing to Zeke.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Fair enough.” Zeke jerks his head for Mo to follow.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>The pizza is greasy and good; it’s cheap but Zeke still gets the bill—he snatches it up before Mo can even reach for it.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Please, which one of us has a job?” Zeke says as he passes a debit card to the waiter. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“I’m gonna get a summer job,” Mo says, petulantly. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“It’s not summer, is it?” Zeke signs the receipt once it comes back, pockets his card, then stands. “C’mon, you still gotta pick a movie.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo groans but follows Zeke back to his car. “Look up what’s playing and read them off to me.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Then end up seeing the latest Jumanji movie, which is fine because Mo liked the first two, except partway through the film, Zeke leans over and admits he hasn’t seen any of them. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“What?” Mo hisses. “Why didn’t you say anything?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke shrugs. The warm sunny light of the film casts his face in a yellow glow. “Didn’t matter,” he says. “You wanted to see it.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo’s mouth shuts with a click. Zeke smiles at him, something softer and more sheepish than Mo has ever seen on his face before. Wordlessly, they both turn back to the screen.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“This was fun,” Mo says as he pulls up alongside Zeke’s apartment building. It’s not half bad, honestly; a little mossy and old, but not dilapidated and disgusting. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Yeah,” Zeke says. Instead of the apathy in his voice that Mo remembers, there’s genuine inflection, real emotion infused into the single word. “We should do it again some time.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Definitely,” Mo says. “School will make it a little harder, but, y’know, we can figure it out.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Totally. And hey, if you come into the shop to do your homework, I’ll hook you up with free coffee and shit.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Can you really do that?” Mo asks, skeptical. Despite the last couple weeks of almost nonstop talking, and despite all the ways it seems like Zeke might’ve changed, he can’t help the inherent distrust in his voice. He somehow wouldn’t be surprised, even after all this, that Zeke would steal from his job just to give Mo snacks. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“I can,” Zeke replies proudly, “cuz I’m payin’ for em.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo can feel a blush burning at his cheeks. “You don’t have to do that. You have, like, rent to pay and shit.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke only shrugs. “It’s fine, I wanna. You save your money, alright?” With that, Zeke clambers out of the car. He gives Mo a little wave before striding up the steps to his building and buzzing himself in.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo stays parked until the door falls shut, and even then, he stays parked a little longer as the words sink in.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He does end up doing his homework at the coffeeshop more often than not, after that. It’s the easiest way to see Zeke without making plans that interfere with either his schedule or Mo’s. The free drinks and snacks are a bonus too, although Mo accidentally turns in an essay with a coffee ring on the front page. They don’t spend the entire time talking like they might’ve all those years ago: Zeke actually does his job and does it well, and Mo actually focuses on his homework and gets shit done. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>One day, a month after their last pizza day, Zeke falls into the chair across from Mo with an exaggerated sigh.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“What?” Mo asks though he never looks up from his book and notes.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“My six-month mark is this weekend,” Zeke says. He doesn’t sound as pleased about it as Mo expects. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>It does get him to put his pen down, at least. “Wait, really?” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke nods.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Shit, man, that’s awesome! Are you gonna do something special?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“My sponsor wants to take me out to a nice dinner or some shit, which is cool. But otherwise, nah.” Zeke looks away from Mo to glance around the coffeeshop. “It’s hard cuz it’s like, this huge deal, you know? Haven’t had a drink in six months, haven’t done coke in six months, whatever. But when it comes time to celebrate, it’s like that’s all I can fucking think about.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>“Come over to my place,” Mo says.</span> He doesn’t even have to think about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke startles in his seat. “What?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“My roommate is gone for the weekend, come over to my place. We can watch movies or play video games and order takeout, or something. I know it’s no Pimps and Hoes party, but…” Mo shrugs one shoulder and drops his gaze back to his notes. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke leans closer and his shadow covering Mo’s notes gets him to look up. Zeke’s smile is so wide, it takes up nearly his whole field of vision. “That’d be sick, man, thank you.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo smiles back. “Of course.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke knocks on the door—shave and a haircut, two bits—and Mo hurries over to wrench it open. As he strides in, Zeke’s head whips around as if he has to take in all the details as quick as possible.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Tight,” he declares as he sets their takeout on the miniscule kitchen counter. “It’s like you live in a shoebox.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo snorts. “It is what it is.” He looks at the room and tries to picture it through Zeke’s eyes—both Zeke now, and Zeke five years ago. Zeke now surveys everything with a polite appreciation and the occasional snarky comment. Zeke five years ago would’ve been ruthless in making fun of the tiny space. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>The kitchen takes up half of the main room, and the other half is occupied by his roommate’s television and entertainment center. The couch is one Mo found on the side of the road and had to beg a passerby to help him haul it back to the dorm. On either side of the room are two doors: one leading to his roommate’s bedroom, the other to Mo’s.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Nah, man, it’s nice.” Zeke nods, then reaches out to sling an arm around Mo’s shoulders. Despite the growth spurt Mo had his senior year of high school, he’s still not quite as tall as Zeke. “It’s yours, and that’s sick as hell.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo ducks to hide his smile but murmurs, “thanks.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span><span>They’re a movie and a half in, takeout demolished along with two bags of popcorn, when Zeke shifts on the couch. The movement immediately has Mo’s attention—he wasn’t particularly interested in watching </span><em>The Thing</em> anyway, especially not the original—so he shifts too. They’re facing each other on the couch, Mo’s legs pulled onto the cushion and Zeke with one knee up on the couch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“You got a girlfriend?” Zeke asks.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo blinks. “You know I don’t.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Boyfriend?” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo shakes his head. “Not that I’m opposed,” he adds, “but...no time.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Right.” And then Zeke’s moving across the couch and closer, closer, until he’s kissing Mo. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo doesn’t even squeak in surprise, and for that he gives himself a little mental pat on the back. He tilts his head so his and Zeke’s lips slot together better. When Zeke licks across the seam of his mouth, Mo sighs. Zeke’s tongue slips between his lips and it’s like fire and electricity all at once, too much but Mo wants more. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>He’s wanted more for a long time, if he’s being honest. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>Zeke may have started out dating his sister, but as the years went on—as puberty struck Mo like a freight train, might be more accurate to say—there was no denying his feelings toward Zeke. Zeke was cool back then, aloof, everything that Mo wanted to be. He was everything Mo wanted to have, and own, and possess.</span> Mo spent more than one night with his hand down his pants thinking about fucking on Zeke’s ratty old couch, or in his shitty car, or at a party. Sometimes, it almost consumed Mo’s thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kind of like right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“You’re thinking too hard,” Zeke says against his lips. One of his hands cups Mo’s jaw. “Just focus on me, alright?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“I’m always focused on you,” Mo breathes but he doesn’t know if Zeke hears, lost into their next kiss between one breath and the next. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>There was that time in the car, when Zeke told Mo about jerking off before sleeping with a girl. Zeke had mentioned jerking off before he picked Mo up—and how funny it had been at the time, because Mo had jerked off before getting picked up, too. He’d jerked off thinking of getting fucked in the back of Zeke’s piece of shit car, staring up at the ripped ceiling with Zeke’s blond head looming over him. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>In his jeans, here and now, Mo’s dick twitches. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke smirks against his lips. “Can I?” He asks, and suddenly his other hand is over Mo’s half chub, hot and heavy and huge. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo can’t help but thrust up against the pressure. “Yeah, please,” he moans. He helps Zeke get his pants undone but becomes utterly useless as Zeke’s fingers curl around his cock. Mo steadies himself with his hands on Zeke’s shoulders and lets out a whine. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he gasps, “not gonna last.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Good,” Zeke murmurs before kissing Mo again. Quietly, he adds, “wanna see you come.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>Mo shudders in Zeke’s hold and nods nonsensically. “Yeah, you will, I’m gonna.” He gulps and tilts his head for another kiss; Zeke obliges him by licking into his mouth, tongue hot and filthy wet. The kiss is messy and sloppy and it feels a little like Zeke’s trying to devour him.</span> Mo wants to let him, like he’s fifteen again and wants to give Zeke everything he has. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo’s never felt anything this good in his entire life. He sucks on Zeke’s tongue and gets a groan for his trouble. When the kiss finally breaks, both of them panting for air, there’s a thin line of spit connecting their mouths. Mo licks his lips and the string breaks, and Zeke lets out a whine like he’s dying.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“I wanna touch you too,” Mo manages to say, one hand flitting toward the front of Zeke’s jeans.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“In a second,” Zeke promises, “wanna get you off first.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo can’t really find it in himself to argue with that. Zeke’s hand feels like perfection around his dick—callouses from who knows what, skin soft along the palms, long bony fingers curled just tight enough for perfect friction. Mo gasps and fucks into Zeke’s grip, digging his nails into Zeke’s shoulders.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“C’mon, Mo,” Zeke hisses, “come for me, wanna see it.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo nods again and his breathing hitches as he starts to come. It’s hot and wet and stains the bottom of his shirt and coats Zeke’s hand. He can’t even bear to look down but he watches Zeke’s eyes narrow in on his dick. It’s like the other man is hypnotized, entranced. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo winces and squirms when the orgasm starts to fade and the pleasure’s replaced by oversensitivity. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke pulls his hand away immediately; instead of wiping it along the back of the couch or something, like Mo, expects, he licks his hand clean. If Mo hadn’t just come, he’d be hard again in an instant.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke gives him a goofy smirk once his fingers glisten with spit and not come, and Mo doesn’t even have to think about it before he’s shoving Zeke back and sinking to the floor. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Shit,” Zeke half-yelps, staring in shock as Mo makes quick work of his stupid sweatpants. “Mo, baby, you don’t have to.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>The pet name sends a shiver down Mo’s spine but he doesn’t linger on it. “I want to,” he says before drawing Zeke’s dick from his pants and slipping his mouth over the tip.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>“Fuck,” Zeke groans, “fucking shit, Mo, you’ve got a perfect fucking mouth.” His hand, still spit-sticky, finds Mo’s hair but he doesn’t even care. The gentle way Zeke tugs is good enough to override the grossness. The praise spilling from Zeke’s lips, and the aborted swivel of his hips as he tries not to choke Mo on his cock—it’s all just </span><em>perfect</em>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“How many cocks you sucked with that pretty mouth?” Zeke asks as Mo tongues at the head. The precome is bitter and salty against his taste buds, but Mo swallows it down anyway.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>As he speaks, he works his hand around the base of Zeke’s dick. “None,” he says, voice already hoarse, “just yours.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>“Oh, holy fucking hell,” Zeke groans. His head tips back to hit the back of the couch with a </span><em>thud</em>. “Get me in your fucking mouth, or I’m gonna come on that pretty fucking face of yours.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo doesn’t protest, even though part of him wants to. He’s never done that before, obviously, but he wouldn’t mind Zeke being the first. But coming in his mouth is fine too, so Mo takes a deep breath and slips his mouth down Zeke’s cock until his lips meet his fist. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke’s hand tightens in his hair and as Mo swallows, throat working around his dick, Zeke swears loud and colorfully. He slams one hand against the couch and his hips finally buck up, again and again because he can’t control himself anymore. Mo can feel it tickling his gag reflex but forces himself not to pull back. He focuses on the feeling of Zeke’s cock sliding across his tongue, the way it starts to pulse and gets impossibly harder inside his mouth. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke shoots his load down the back of Mo’s throat and he doesn’t even taste a thing; he’s actually a little disappointed, until a final spurt of come hits his tongue as he draws back. The salty, bitter taste from before is multiplied tenfold, and he finally gags a little.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke laughs and hooks a hand under Mo’s arm to haul him into his lap. “Come is gross,” he says before kissing Mo deeply. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo winds his arms around Zeke’s shoulders and in turn, Zeke winds his around Mo’s waist. It’s almost romantic, aside from the people screaming in terror on the television. </span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Mo,” Zeke starts after they finally stop idly kissing. His lips are flushed and swollen, and Mo wonders if his own look the same. “I like you. A lot.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“I do too,” Mo croaks. It makes them both laugh. He clears his throat and says again. “I do too. I always liked you.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>A dozen emotions flitter across Zeke’s face—regret, fear, something like hope. “Even when I got you expelled?”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Mo doesn’t mince words. “No...No, I didn’t like you then. Not as much, at least.” Mo sighs and leans back slightly, but doesn’t move from Zeke’s lap. “I never actually hated you, though.”</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>That seems to be what Zeke was looking for. Just some simple confirmation, as if that makes the five years apart okay. Zeke leans in for another, fervent kiss, gripping Mo’s hips tight enough to nearly hurt.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><span>As Mo kisses him back, he thinks, </span><em>maybe the five years apart were okay</em>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Maybe we needed that.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Maybe he needed that. I definitely did.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>
      <span>Maybe things can be okay now, too.</span>
    </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“You’re thinking too hard,” Zeke mumbles again as he drags his mouth along Mo’s jaw, down his neck.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>“Maybe you should fix that, then,” Mo replies.</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <span>Zeke’s smirk against his neck is like a promise. “It would be my pleasure.” </span>
  </span>
</p>
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